


A Chance Meeting in Tvedestrand

by gaotamao



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Book musings, Book perspective, Gen, Leamas tells his story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 18:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30093618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaotamao/pseuds/gaotamao
Summary: This story is inspired by the lovely book-town of Tvedestrand in Norway, and John Le Carré’s book ‘The Spy Who Came In From The Cold’, which I found in a bookshop there. I really must find a way to stop falling in love with story characters, so that I won't be so upset when bad things happen to them.
Relationships: Liz Gold/Alec Leamas





	A Chance Meeting in Tvedestrand

Leamas stretched dreamily, wondering if he was in London or Berlin. Or was it Amsterdam. His mind suddenly jumped into a state of full awareness; he must get Mundt. Then everything went dark, and the musty smell of old books on dusty shelves enveloped him once more.

Weeks, months, years passed and in his restless slumber, he felt himself being laid on his side. From a distance he heard Puck’s voice singing a sleepy song from 'Midsummer Night’s Dream'. Then the voice stopped in mid verse, and he felt that book being placed atop of him. More days passed and when he was again unpacked, Leamas heard a sing-song language that he could not quite place. It did not sound like another book because these voices were not telling a story. They sounded like real people speaking. He caught some words he recognised. Norwegian? Swedish? His mind worked through the question so slowly that he wondered if he was drugged? But why was he drugged? Who drugged him? Where was he?

Without warning a light flashed into his face and, for the first time in years, Leamas found himself looking out a window. He turned his gaze back into the dimly lit room. Behind the woman holding him, he could see a cash register next to a festival poster that had the name Tvedestrand upon it. Norway, he realized with a start.

Leamas wanted so badly to stretch open and tell his story, but nobody was reading. The woman holding him was just flipping through the pages, airing him perhaps or checking him for damages. Then too soon, she placed him to the side on a trolley. The two women continued talking, as though having a disagreement of sorts, yet their tone of voice was gentle as they discussed their problem. He struggled to stay awake as he listened to them, his mind jumping from a state of being a storyteller to being a story-character. He was relieved when the trolley he was on was moved, turning two corners that were only within three yards of each other. Was he in a house, he wondered. When he was finally put on a shelf, he could smell other books - not in a musty way, but in an old parchment kind of way. The room he was in was comfortable and dry, just the way his pages like it.

Leamas began to settle in the cold climate, resigning himself to the idea that no one would ever wish to hear him speak again. No one was interested to know how beautiful Liz was or of how much he cared for her. Of how much he wanted to get away from the business, so that he could be with her. A cramping sadness washed over him but it soon passed.

Being shaken out of sleep some weeks later was not a comfortable feeling. It was cold and the fingers holding him were colder. He could feel the body heat the woman was giving off and the smell of summer rain on her. “There you are,” she said aloud, and let out a chuckle. “Fancy finding you here in Norway.” A foreigner, speaking English, but not a native English speaker he quickly surmised from her accent.

Leamas felt her open the copyright page and read it. He began to shiver with anticipation, but was disappointed when she closed him again. He could hear her moving about the shelves and hearing book after book calling out to her like little puppies in a pet store begging for someone to adopt them. Each promised to be good, each claimed that theirs was the best story in the room. Leamas heard her settle on Joseph Conrad’s “Young Ulysses”, of The Arrow of Gold. Strange choice, he thought. He hoped she was not one of those people who were only collecting books to impress other people. Of course, he did not consider himself impressive, but other books from respectable collections had mentioned that they had seen his clone in their old place.

Despite his doubts about her reasons for picking him, he was glad when she brought him to the cash register. He even listened when she chatted with the owner of the bookstore. There was no new information here; just the bland, normal, every day kind of polite conversation that gave nothing away. It was sunny but wet outside. Leamas could tell that she was cold and miserable, so he was glad when she declined a paper bag and put both him and that other no-name fellow into her knapsack, to protect them from the rain.

When Leamas again woke, he found himself in a small room with twin beds. After quickly ascertaining that one of the beds had not been slept in, he began to tell her his story about Karl, Elvira and Control. Then he stopped as she dressed and took her luggage downstairs. A man's voice told her that the bus to the airport had arrived in the parking lot. They were leaving in twenty minutes.

When he was reawakened, he found himself in a bus. He continued telling her his story, his plans and his fears. About the gamble he took when he placed his life into the hands of others and his hopes when he insisted that Liz be spared. The tone of his voice changed whenever he spoke of Liz, and he slowly came to a realization that she had become the one thing in his life he dared not risk. Did that mean he loved her more than his own life? He couldn’t tell, he was a story after all and a good story is never truly sure about such things until he or she comes to a decision.

Every now and then the woman would turn away from him to study the view outside. He was glad, for it gave him a chance to watch the numerous ports and marinas lined with motor launches and yachts which they passed on their way to Oslo’s International Airport at Gardermoen. The landscape changed from shorelines to open fields and then to tall buildings that shone like crystallized ice. After manoeuvring past the busy streets for some time, the bus re-emerged into a highway flanked by open fields to either side. As it slowed, Leamas was again packed into the knapsack.

A while later he felt himself being placed on a conveyor belt. This time the darkness was a little different and he had the sensation of being scanned. He waited and waited, wondering if she had put him in the check-in luggage. Then he heard her talking to someone.

“I am sorry,” said the man, “I need to check you. Do you have anything in your pockets? Are you wearing a belt?” To both these questions she said ‘No’. Then he asked her to take off her shoes.

Leamas frowned and went through his memories of what could be carried in a shoe: Knives, drugs, money, or anything small enough to fit into one. The stilettos were a hazard. He wondered if she was wearing a pair though he doubted it, for she was limping a little on her left foot from the cold. The airport security man was very polite and official sounding, so Leamas knew that he could not be flirting with her. Then he wondered how a spy like him would have fared in this new world where you have to scan your shoes before getting on a plane.

Once they had settled into a seat on the plane, he was again taken out and opened to a bookmarked page. Leamas had little memory of everything that had happened to him from this point forward, almost as though he had rewritten that part of his life with the endings of other stories, mixing and matching them into such a confusing array. He spent years sorting through the many books he was usually placed next to, in hopes of finding the good ending, to re-imagine a perfect ending for him and Liz. But now, as he relived this part of his story, he suddenly realised that he had once again failed to rewrite his story. Waves of horror, disgust and regret rushed back to haunt him. Most of all guilt. He could see his mistakes before he even took action. His mind screamed at himself - stop, stop, stop - but he couldn't. It was fated. 

It was meant to be just a job. Nothing more. His last job. He was doing it for his country, for the free nation - he heard himself argue, yet after so many times reliving this nightmare over and over, his conviction was now beginning to wan. Abruptly, the arguments in his mind stopped, because the ideology he believed in, the people he worked for was no longer important. Leamas looked up, seeing for the first time the Asian face that had been listening to him.

She closed the book, placed it carefully on her lap and watched the Norwegian cabin crew as they pushed carts up and down the aisle. She studied their practical uniforms, the way the female crew did their hair and the way they talked with the passengers. Leamas could sense that she was pleased with their aloof but polite professional manner. She seemed to like that these people were proud to be part of the working class, that they appear more like egalitarian socialists rather than hierarchical capitalists. Leamas fumed, offended that she did not believe in what he believed. Had she not listened to him?

Then he realized that this was no longer the Europe he knew. The young had managed to survive the cold war and had dictated how life should be lived. He could feel her patting the cover, almost in a motherly way, as though to say that everything was alright now. That even if the past was full of suffering and mistrust, it was now alright. But how could it be alright, Leamas wondered. How could it be alright when secrets are still being kept, when one class of people felt that they have a right and obligation to dictate how others should live, feel and believe? How will it ever be alright?

Maybe one day he would again retell his story to someone else, or maybe he would retell it to her. He went back to sleep again, dreaming of the sing-song gentle language of the North and the cosy warmth of the dark winter in Tvedestrand.


End file.
